In the 1949 John Ford movie, “She Wore a Yellow Ribbon,” there’s a moment where John Wayne leans forward and interrupts a cavalryman expressing regret. “Never apologize,” Wayne snaps. “It’s a sign of weakness.”

That moment resonated last week in the story of the forced departure from Apple of Scott Forstall, the head of software for the iPhone and iPad. One of the reported counts against Forstall? He refused to sign an apology for Apple’s flawed Maps software.

Presumably, Forstall was in CEO Tim Cook’s sights for other reasons as well. The software engineer was known as a man who did not always play well with others. Forstall lasted at Apple because he was protected by the legendary Steve Jobs, his greatest fan.

On the apology issue, however, I side with Forstall. Apple’s apology, which Cook signed, made little sense, even given the widespread grief Apple was receiving.

Apple has a lot of smart people. Did they not know they had potential problems? Or did the pressure to compete with Google make them rush?

Here’s my rule of thumb: In personal relationships, apologies matter. We can offend by a thoughtless remark, a silly gesture. A simple “I’m sorry” offers a bridge to peace.

In business, politics or court proceedings, an apology should merit distrust. It’s often a counterfeit effort to seek atonement for what cannot be excused. It exploits our natural yearning to forgive.

Mineta’s bill

When then-President Ronald Reagan signed U.S. Rep. Norm Mineta’s reparations bill for Japanese-American internees in 1988, the president’s apology was accompanied by $20,000 per head. That was some comfort. Did it dissolve the stain of the internment? Hardly.

Certainly Steve Jobs never believed in public apology. When a controversy erupted two years ago about the antenna in the iPhone, Jobs responded by suggesting users were at fault for the way they held it. (He did, however, offer cases to end the problem.)

You don’t have to be as contentious as Jobs to handle a flaw. You can say, “We weren’t as good as we should have been. Trust us: We will get better.” It’s a statement of hope without the servility or falseness of an apology.

When stockholders pilloried Netflix in 2011 for splitting its DVD operation from online streaming, CEO Reed Hastings issued a candid statement that said he had not prepared customers adequately.

Then he used the dreaded words, “I offer my sincere apology.” Did Hastings not understand the reaction the split would provoke? A year later, Carl Icahn, the corporate raider, took a 10 percent stake in the Los Gatos company.

Republican candidate Mitt Romney has been making much of what he calls President Barack Obama’s “apology tour” in the Mideast in 2009. If you look at what the president actually said, however, it fell short of a fawning, “We’re sorry.”

“There have been times where America has shown arrogance and been dismissive,” Obama said. He quickly followed by upbraiding Europeans for a facile attitude that sought to blame Americans.

Would John Wayne regard that as weakness? Probably. But this isn’t 1949 anymore. In politics or business, we can admit mistakes — we need to admit mistakes — without saying sorry. On the big stage, the quest for forgiveness almost always rings false.

President Donald Trump's latest barrage of tweets attacking investigations into Russian meddling in the 2016 election stretched the bounds of credulity, from false claims that "no crime" had been uncovered to assertions that his campaign had been cleared of collusion with Russia.